


A Few Too Many

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Kitchen Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 15:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11739600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: Dinner had been nice, but nerve-racking, and she had never expected to be the kind of parent who went out and instantly started imagining what kind of disaster could befall her sister and herkid, Jesus Christ.  Given how frequently Dolls checked his phone under the table, at least she knew she wasn’t alone.  By about the tenth text, Waverly had called her and explained under no uncertain terms that if she gotone moremessage asking about the baby, she’d make sure Wynonna regretted it.  So, she’d stopped, and somehow that helped.  The movie hadn’t been bad, and the theater had been damn near empty, so when it gotboring, at least they could distract themselves.It got boring pretty quickly.





	A Few Too Many

Of all the things Wynonna Earp could reasonably expect from life, former Deputy Marshall Xavier Dolls being an affectionate-and-dare-she-say- _handsy_ drunk was _not_ one of them.  It had just been a night out—they never get those, not before the baby and _certainly_ not after, but Waves had _demanded_ they go out, reminded her that Nicole’s place is baby-proofed even better than the homestead, and had sent them on their merry way.  Dinner had been nice, but nerve-racking, and she had _never_ expected to be the kind of parent who went out and _instantly_ started imagining what kind of disaster could befall her sister and her _kid_ , Jesus Christ.  Given how frequently Dolls checked his phone under the table, at least she knew she wasn’t alone.  By about the tenth text, Waverly had called her and explained under no uncertain terms that if she got _one more_ message asking about the baby, she’d make sure Wynonna regretted it.  So, she’d stopped, and somehow that helped.  The movie hadn’t been bad, and the theater had been damn near empty, so when it got _boring_ , at least they could distract themselves.

It got boring pretty quickly.

She’s not really sure how they ended up at Shorty’s, to be honest.  She thinks they didn’t want to go back to the homestead just yet—it was just after ten, after all, and they’re not _geriatric._   And… where would they go _but_ Shorty’s? 

The first mistake is buying a bottle instead of just getting a couple drinks.  Rosie has been _very firm_ about their limit on free drinks, which Wynonna, being the kind of person who doesn’t infrequently steal booze from directly behind the bar, kinda understands and doesn’t begrudge her.  But, with Dolls’ credit card in hand, she’s more than happy to _give_ them a bottle and couple glasses and shoo them to a table.  They’re happy to go, anyway, and after a few drinks Dolls starts talking about Arizona, and his grandmother taking him to Sunday school.  Warm and buzzing—listen, it’s been a while since she’s had, like, a _serious_ drink, so sue her—she _knows_ she’s sporting _the_ dopiest grin, but she’s helpless to stop it because it takes, like, a blood moon and a sacrifice to a dead god to get him to actually volunteer anything about his past, and usually _that’s_ gonna be completely devastating.  To see him, a soft smile across his face, as he talks about goddamn baking brownies, for Christ’s sake, is like an actual miracle.

The second mistake was sitting so close.  Soon, his hand ends up on her thigh, and she almost doesn’t think of it, until his fingertips trace high enough to be dangerous on her inseam and she crosses her legs, trapping his hand, and hisses, “Um, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, probably shooting for innocent but the curl of his smile has gone a touch too wicked for it to be believable.

His fingers wiggle just a little, and she knew she was right not to trust that smile.  She thinks it must be payback for all the times she’s done her damnedest to rile him up at the station.  Without warning, his free hand comes up to the back of her neck and pulls her forward and mashes their lips together, and all she can taste is whiskey.  Something clinks hard on their table and they break away.

“You two looked _thirsty_ ,” Rosita says with a sharp, knowing smile.  Her eyes flick over them and she leans forward.  “Try to keep it PG-13, eh, Mom and Dad?  Cops drink here.”

Wynonna pulls a face at her as she leaves that she returns mockingly, but then Dolls’ breath is hot on her neck and she hears, “We could shoot for NC-17.”

“Jesus Christ,” she huffs, taking another drink and chasing it with water to cool herself all the way down.  His lips brush her skin _just so_ and she bites the inside of her cheek and tries to pretend it doesn’t send a thrill through her.  “Get a couple drinks in you and you go all exhibitionist on me.”

He pulls back and frowns.  “Wynonna, you’ve done worse in front of your _sister_.”

Wrinkling her nose, she shushes him, and his hand slides to her shoulder, then down, then settles on her hip.  He kisses her again, but this one is brief and gentle and _hot_ , and then he’s back to his own drink.  They go through the bottle a little too quickly, and the water, and Wynonna really struggles with the decision to go _home_ rather than stay for more.  It’s just that he’s got such a low, rich voice and he’s using it to murmur quiet, delicious things into her ear, and he’s touching her so much, and she can barely _breathe_.

“Hey,” she whispers, pushing out of her chair, “You should take me home.”

“I agree,” he says quickly, pulling her toward him and smiling into her lips.  His hands slide low and she shakes her head.

“You’re _bad_ ,” she laughs.  “I like this Dolls.”  His brow furrows a little and she huffs, stroking his jaw, and mutters, “Stop, you know I like all the Dollses.”  She kisses him, quick and sweet and says, “You need to get your card.”

He groans, but lets her go and damn near mopes off to the bar.  Leaning against their table, she watches him and fishes a piece of ice out of her glass.  And, sure, she _may_ be staring at his ass.  A lot.  To the point of being driven to actual distraction.  But then he’s swaggering back her like he _knows_ she was staring and she scowls out of form.  He snags her hand and looks a little like he’s gonna actually _beg_ her, she can almost hear him say, ”Let’s go, let’s go,” but she isn’t really interested in playing coy when he’s just spent the last hour with his hands on her.

Outside, he pushes her against the side of the SUV and kisses her so hard she’s surprised she doesn’t chip a tooth, but she’s too busy winding her arms around his neck to worry about that.  His hands slip down to her ass, pulls her flush against him.  “This isn’t taking me home,” she murmurs, pulling back just a little.

“Just one more,” he smiles, pressing back in but just short of her lips.

“One more,” she whispers, arching up the rest of the way, nails digging into the back of his shirt.  He kisses her so hard, she feels like she’s drowning a little bit.  She’s not sure how he just _does that_ , kisses her until she’s dizzy and doesn’t know which way is up.  Her chest is heaving and her face is hot when he breaks away from her.  “Maybe one more,” she says.

“That’s not taking you home,” he teases.  She sighs and lets her fingers trail lightly on his neck, too warm and pleasantly loose and already so turned on it hurts.  “Sooner we get home, sooner I can…” he trails off and nips her earlobe, the tendon of her neck.

She huffs and it takes everything in her not to let her head drop back—she’s pretty sure she nearly cracked the window last time.  “Okay, take me home and then take me—”

“You’re ridiculous,” he hums warmly into her lips.

“Okay, stop touching me, we gotta go,” she says hurriedly, shoving at his chest until he drops back a step with a laugh.  Quickly, before she can give in to the temptation to reel him back in, she wrenches open the door and damn near leaps in.  With one hand steadying himself on the door, he leans in for a fast peck before he shuts her in.

“Seatbelt,” is all he says when he gets into his own seat.

“Typical,” she snorts, but he doesn’t so much as put the keys in until she sighs and buckles up.  “Better?”

He favors her with a quick flash of a smile. 

Maybe a little to get back at him for working her up so much at the bar and maybe a little because of the liquor, she finds she can’t keep her hands to herself, touching his leg, his chest, his stomach under his T-shirt.  When he grabs her hand and holds it in her lap, she brings it to her lips, brushing feather-light kisses to his knuckles, then his palm.  At a stoplight, she lurches over the center console to bite and suck his neck.  She only stops when the car behind them honks at the green light.  She’d never admit it, but she giggles as she drops back into her seat.

Of course, she still does the same damn thing at every stop.

It is, quite possibly, the longest ride home of her _life_ and she took a Greyhound back to Purgatory.  He’s not even in park before she’s leaping out of the SUV, boots crunching on gravel, and she feels him behind her before she even gets to the porch and whirls on him from the second step.  Her fists clench into his jacket and she tugs him closer, and he stumbles into her, laughing as their mouths crash together messily.  From a step up, she’s on level with him.

“There’s a house, like, _right there_ ,” he mumbles into her lips—she purrs happily but keeps kissing him like she’ll die if she stops, clinging to him as his hands slip under her shirt, big and warm and lighting a fire everywhere he touches.  “Wynonna,” he rumbles, damn near a plea.

She pulls back, bites her lip around a smile, and his hands hold her hips close.  “We should go inside,” she says a little guiltily even as she lets her fingers trail over his neck, his jaw. 

It’s not like—they’ve been doing whatever _this_ is for _months_ , since before Sprout, even, but, _God_ , she doesn’t think she’ll ever get over just being able to touch him.  She lets him walk her backwards up the next step, chase her lips, get her caged in against the door.  He kisses her hungrily, hands still under her shirt, against her hips, her waist, her ribs, and she reaches back to twist the doorknob, stomach doing a weird little tipsy, flip-floppy thing when it swings inward with her still backed up against it and making her laugh a little shrilly as she regains her footing.  He kicks the door behind him and toes off his shoes, only slightly unsteady, and she snickers.

“Do you realize,” she asks, shoving his jacket off his shoulders, “That we’re in an empty house and it’s past midnight and we’re awake _not_ because of a crying baby?”

“I had noticed that,” he murmurs, fingers burying into her hair and pulling her forward to drop quick, jarring pecks into her lips. 

“I want you,” she says between kisses, “Couch.”

When he doesn’t make a move toward the living room, she tugs him further into the house.  He lets her manhandle him over to the couch, lets her drag his shirt up over his head and toss it onto the floor, lets her push him onto the couch.  She drops into his lap, straddling his thighs, and strokes his neck and bare shoulders and soon she’s shimmying his A-shirt up and off, too, dropping it over the back of the couch.  His stubble burns her lips as she smears-sucks-bites kisses against his throat, they come away raw and swollen and she knows they’ll ache in the morning but he sighs gentle little moans as he tips his head back and it’s _addictive_ and she can’t stop.  She moves to his shoulder, his collarbone, his chest, smiles into his skin and sucks the spot just over his nipple, relishing his hiss.

“I shouldn’t be rewarding bad behavior,” she murmurs, pulling back to strip out of her shirt.  He hums as he kisses the middle of her chest and wraps his arms around her middle.  “You were being _indecent_ —that’s _my_ job.”  She hisses when his teeth drag over the top of her breast.  “And the drunk driving.”

“Not drunk,” he protests.  “Buzzed.”

“Uh-huh, you try that one out on Nedley and tell me how it works for you,” she says easily, letting her nails scrape over his scalp.

“Please don’t talk about him when I’m trying to get you naked,” he moans, dropping his forehead to her chest.

Grinning unrepentantly, she pulls out of his grasp and drops to her knees between his thighs, grazes her lips lightly against his stomach, and he hitches out a quiet half-laugh.  She smooths her hands up his legs and nips where the hem of his jeans meets his skin, shot through with heat at his gasp.  She sucks the same spot as she works at getting the button and zipper undone, only stopping when she’s got his half-hard cock free of his boxers.  Her tongue slips from base to tip before she takes the head into her mouth—he groans, and she sees one hand gripping the arm of the couch, the other lands on the back of her head.  After several strong pulls, she pops off to lap teasing licks up his shaft before she realizes he’s not being _nearly_ as vocal as usual.

“I render you speechless, baby?” she asks sweetly, smile faltering when she sees his head tipped back, shoulders loose, and—son of a _bitch_ , he’s sleeping, isn’t he?  “Dolls?”  No response, but his chest rises and falls steadily.  “Xavier!”

When he doesn’t stir, she scowls and shoves to her feet.  She’s got half a mind to leave him half-naked and exposed but thinks better of it and drags the throw off the back of the couch to cover him.  She’ll make him regret it in the morning, after all.

With nothing else to do and her evening plans thoroughly destroyed, she goes to her room, changes, and climbs into bed.  She thinks about rubbing one out because _someone_ should get an orgasm out of tonight, but finds there’s a bitter tinge of disappointment she can’t shake enough to get back into the mood.  Eventually, she just sleeps.

\--

Bright and early, Wynonna wakes up with only a splitting headache, which isn’t as bad as it coulda been.  She hops out of bed and hums a tune as she leaves her bedroom, pausing only for a moment to confirm that Dolls is still sleeping, still right where she left him, before going the other way towards the kitchen.  Now, it’s a well-documented fact that Wynonna can’t cook— _she_ thinks her cooking’s _fine_ , but market research indicates otherwise.  But there’s one thing she _can_ make, and that’s pancakes.  To be fair, when the bulk of the ingredients come out of one box, it’s significantly easier, but she takes pride in them.  And she _deserves_ pancakes after last night.  So, she gets the ingredients together, gets the blueberries out of the fridge and the mini chocolate chips out of the cabinet.  She’s got a good stack going when she hears movement from the other room, can _just_ make out the sound of a low groan, and she smirks.  After a while, she hears footsteps behind her, feels his arms around her, hears his quiet, “Mm, pancakes,” as his nose brushes behind her ear.

“Not for you,” she says adamantly.

“What do you mean not for me?” he asks, offended.

She twists and brandishes the spatula in her hand like a weapon.  “You don’t get pancakes when you fall asleep _while I’m blowing you_.”

His eyes go wide and his mouth falls open and if she weren’t still _super_ upset about the night before she’d laugh right in his face.  “Shit,” he hisses.

“Yeah, shit, so much shit,” she cries, turning back to flip her pancake.

After a moment, his hands cover her hips as he nudges into her neck as he coaxes, “Hey, I’m sorry—it was the whiskey, and it was late—let me make it up to you.”

Against her will, her lips curl.  “How’s that?” she asks stiffly.

Humming quietly, he lets his fingers brush low on her belly and her breath catches as she slips the pancake off the pan and onto the top of the stack.  Pretending to be unaffected, she pours more batter into the center of the pan, sprinkles a handful of berries and chocolate chips on top.  His stubble burns against the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder, just the right spot to draw a whimper out of her.  His hands move up to her breasts, grasping and a little rough, teases her nipples through her shirt. 

“Jesus,” she breathes, letting her head fall back onto his shoulder and pressing backward into him.  His mouth stay right where it is, and she knows she’ll have a bruise but it just doesn’t matter as long as he keeps touching her.

“Gonna burn,” he mutters, working back up her neck until he’s right behind her ear. 

Thoughtlessly, she flips it, makes a little bit of a mess when it lands cockeyed, and catches her lower lip between her teeth.  She whines when he lifts her shirt up, skin pricking against the chill in spite of being nearly on top of the fire.  His palms skim over her bare skin and _yes_ _there that’s good_.  One hand slips over the front of her shorts, too-light and _frustrating_ as the fingers of his free hand come up to her lips.  Without thinking, she opens her mouth, runs her tongue along the seam of two fingers pressed together, and feels his gentle rumble as he strokes her a little harder through her pajamas.  She moans around his fingers, rocks against his every touch.

“Should probably turn off the stove,” he says suddenly, pulling his hands away.

“Uh-huh,” she gasps out, tossing the pan and unfinished-or-possibly-burnt-who-the-hell-cares pancake onto the back burner and flipping off the heat.  When she starts to twist to face him, she feels him shake his head and hold her back to him and she huffs a breathless laugh.  For a moment, he’s just doing _that_ , just holding her, arms wrapped around her and face pressed into her hair, and it’s so brief it probably doesn’t mean anything at all, but her heart pounds and she feels warm all over.  She clears her throat and asks, “Getting sleepy?”

He shushes her and guides her over to the counter, where she plants her hands and pushes back just enough to make him groan quietly.  But then her shorts are down around her ankles and she kicks them off, spreading her legs and grinding back against him until his fingers trip down her belly and glide over her clit.  She bites her lip to muffle a mewl as her hips buck—she loses track of her movements chasing the slip-slide of him against her.

Then his fingers curl _into_ her and there’s _no way_ that noise came from her, hot and loud and desperate.  She feels his chuckle buzzing against her ear and clutches his wrist as she rolls against him, reveling in the way her motions grind her clit against his palm as she rides his fingers.  She whines plaintively, begs for more.  Just when they’ve really gotten into a good rhythm, he slips out of her and before she even knows it, he’s got her spun around, back jammed up against the lip of the counter, and kisses her hungrily.

“I’m gonna really need you to fuck me,” she whispers when he breaks away to catch his breath, laps quickly at his lip when he hisses a curse.  Quickly and not at all smoothly, she pops the button of his jeans open, jams the zipper shoving it down, and then finally, _finally_ gets a hand on his stiff cock, drinking in his open moan.

He pushes her hand away and her stomach swoops when he picks her up.  Her legs wrap around him instinctively, and he barely even wobbles as he carries her—she’s too busy licking her way into his mouth to process where he’s taking her until he dips and sets her so, so gently onto the table.  She almost forgets the thing is rickety as shit and she’ll probably come away with this with a broken neck when he stands, all bare chest and erection _just_ free of his boxers.

Her eyes flutter shut when he presses the head against her, eases into her, thumb coming up to flick her clit as his hips roll slowly.  With her legs, she pulls him forward until he’s leaning over her, one hand up over her shoulder on the table.  Still going slow, he thrusts deep and hard and moans just short of her lips.  She urges him faster as she yanks her shirt up over her breasts, cries of pleasure drowning out the high-pitched scrape of the table jerking against the hardwood.  It’s so good, the angle’s just right to hit that spot deep inside of her that shoots electric heat straight through her, and she knows she’s not gonna hold out long, can’t hold out long, and arches up to drag his lower lip between her teeth as his bucking hips pick up speed.  One hand grips into the bunched muscles of his arm, the other holding on to the edge of the table for dear life.

Back arching and toes curling, she keens when her orgasm hits her and drags him into her for a messy, eager kiss.  He buries one hand into her hair, moans into her mouth as his hips jerk hard and quick into her.  Her nails dig into his back, urging on and harder and _more_ until she feels him stiffen, hears his voice crack around a cry.

She strokes his spine as he drags sleepy, gruff kisses to her throat, clings to him until he pushes up, pulling her with him as he eases out of her.  “Well, shit,” she says contentedly, nosing at his jaw.

“That make up for last night?” he asks, voice low and rich and buzzing.

“Mm, it’s a start,” she grins.

Heaving a quick laugh, he nudges their foreheads together even as he’s tugging her shirt back down.  Eventually, he starts righting his own jeans.  “So… do I get pancakes now?”

**Author's Note:**

> skldfjlsk shoutout to lunafeather because she's my rock when I'm struggling to porn but also because I'm pretty sure she's the only one who asked for this!
> 
> Also, thank you so much for reading?? Come by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I talk about this show constantly and if you talk to me I'll probably... talk about it more tbh


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